


Procedure

by mrs_d



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 00:26:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4766663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just as the asset would always disarm and lay its weapon within reach of its handler, corpses like Renata's would always disappear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Procedure

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to [this prompt](http://mrsdawnaway.tumblr.com/post/128744423844).

Before Renata had hit the floor, Alexander Pierce set the gun, still smoking, back on the table.

“Pity,” he said with a small sigh. “I liked her. She had a knack for getting dirt out of hard-to-reach places.”

The asset hadn’t flinched or indicated in any way that it noticed the sudden sound or the acrid scent of gunpowder. It didn’t even blink. Though he’d had decades to get used to its stillness, Pierce found its lack of reaction unnerving tonight. Stress, he told himself, contemplating the blank face before him. Project Insight’s upcoming launch and Captain America’s rebellion — well, the asset would soon clean that up for him. That was its job.

For his part, Pierce didn’t need to worry about the mess; his security detail would have heard everything, and a clean-up crew would be there within the hour to collect Renata’s body and replace the blood-stained corner of the carpet. It was procedure; just as the asset would always disarm and lay its weapon within reach of its handler, corpses like Renata's would always disappear.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” Pierce asked. This was his favourite game; though, of the two of them, only he could enjoy it — the asset had no wants, of course, nor would it ever know that.

While he waited for the cleaners, Pierce drifted over to the kitchen counter and began setting up the coffee maker for morning. He measured the beans carefully, pouring them into the combined grinder and percolator. From its corner, the asset’s steady gaze remained fixed on Pierce, though it never looked him in the eye.

“This is one of the most expensive coffees in the world,” Pierce declared. “It comes from St. Helena island, 1200 miles off the western coast of Africa.” He hummed in appreciation at the pleasant aroma that almost concealed the coppery smell of Renata’s blood. “It’s worth every penny. Unique floral taste, hints of citrus — there’s nothing else like it. Have you ever tried it?”

The asset didn’t reply, and all at once, Pierce grew tired of his game. “I asked you a question, Soldier,” he said sternly.

“No, Sir,” the asset answered with no emotion.

“Do you want to?” This was a test, of course.

“No, Sir,” it repeated.

Pierce smirked as he poured water into the machine and set the timer. “Your loss.”

The cleaners knocked while Pierce was wiping his hands on the towel under the sink. Within a fraction of a second, the asset had grabbed its gun and positioned itself between its handler and the door, crouched in a defensive stance. Its hands were steady as ever, and Pierce had a flash of pride for the work that HYDRA had done in procuring, creating, and protecting such a weapon.

“Stand down, Soldier,” he murmured affectionately in Russian. This was another test; the asset had been programmed to respond in the same language with which it had been addressed.

“As you wish, Sir,” it replied with perfect, blank intonation. The asset rose, placed the gun on the counter within Pierce’s reach, and all but disappeared into the shadows to Pierce’s right as he called for the cleaners to enter.

Dr. Pemberton stumbled into the room. He was a weedy little man who reminded Pierce of the rats that would no doubt be disposing of Renata’s less valuable organs later that night. Pemberton did not seem to notice the lean statue of an assassin only two feet away as he extended a pale hand that Pierce had no intention of shaking.

“Sir,” Pemberton began in a squeaky voice. “I was told there is—”

“Over there,” Pierce interjected, pointing.

“Ah, yes, thank you, Sir.”

With the air of a child on Christmas morning, Pemberton headed in the direction of the heap formerly known as Pierce’s housekeeper. A small group of people, all with the same eager look, scurried in the door with their equipment and followed Pemberton to the body.

Pierce made a soft noise of disgust. “Honestly, HYDRA attracts the most repulsive sort.” He turned to the asset, whose eyes were tracking the cleaners, no doubt counting them and assessing their threat level. “Well, you ought to know.”

The asset swung its gaze over to Pierce, its brow furrowed. “Clarify, Sir?” it asked.

Pierce rolled his eyes and expelled a short sigh. “Never mind.”

When he’d first become the asset’s handler, he’d felt awkward repeating rehearsed words. He used to say things like “Good luck, Soldier,” and once, in a playful mood, he’d said, “Forward march” and gave the asset a jaunty, two-finger salute. The asset killed three technicians before Pierce could utter the one-time emergency shutdown command. Though a new code word — Laika — was programmed immediately, he’d never yet had to use it.

Since that day, he’d stuck to the script.

“Go now. You have your mission,” he said, handing over the gun.

The asset’s look of concentration vanished as it took the weapon and holstered it. “Thank you, Sir,” it said firmly.

“You’re welcome, Soldier,” Pierce replied, the ritual soothing him as much as he imagined it did the asset.

It left the house silently while the cleaners’ backs were turned. They carried Renata’s body through the same door seconds later; he doubted any of them even knew the asset had been there.

Pierce watched the cleaners work a few minutes longer and made a mental note to call the agency in the morning. Renata would be easy enough to replace, but in the meantime, he was on his own. He picked his glass up from the table and placed it on the top rack of the dishwasher, then frowned and took it out again. He had to rinse it, so the milk residue wouldn’t become a cloudy stain.


End file.
